


the kind of world where we belong

by ellisaco



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:26:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellisaco/pseuds/ellisaco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Harry is sixteen years old when he meets his soulmate.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(based on <a href="http://psyducked.tumblr.com/post/53240946980/i-wish-there-were-necklaces-given-to-us-at-birth">this</a> text post)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the kind of world where we belong

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [La clase de mundo al que pertenecemos (The kind of world where we belong)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/998802) by [Mayicka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayicka/pseuds/Mayicka)



Harry is four years old the first time he asks his mum about her necklace. The blue pendant isn't particularly extraordinary, but it's warm to the touch and Harry has noticed that she always touches it when she smiles.

She pulls him up into her lap—which is Harry's very favourite place to be, even though Will says it shouldn't be because he's not a _baby_ anymore—and says that it's a very important story that she will tell him when he's a little bit older. Harry stomps his foot against the bottom of the chair, his lip trembling, because he's plenty old—he's _four_. She laughs and kisses his nose and says _when you're ready, love._

Spongebob comes on tv a little while later and Harry forgets why he was sad.

 

*

When Harry is six and Gemma is turning ten, Gemma gets a necklace in the shape of a star for her birthday. There's something special about it, Harry can tell—call it a child's intuition. He asks her about it, because he's at that age where he has to know everything about everything. Gemma smiles at him in the all-knowing way of a ten year old and tells him that he's just a baby and it's a _secret_.

Harry cries, which Gemma says proves her point, but he just wants to _know_ and he doesn't understand why nobody will tell him. His mum gives Gemma a stern look and reprimands her—which placates Harry a bit, but doesn't quell his curiosity.

He turns his sad eyes and pouty lips on his mum, hoping she'll see fit to give him an answer. (He's not so young that he hasn't picked up on a few tricks towards getting what he wants.)

She beckons for Harry to follow her to the kitchen, and Harry goes willingly. She sits Harry down at the table and brings him a bowl of chocolate ice cream, patting him on the head as she walks by.

And Harry is six years old and, as such, would never dream of turning down ice cream when it's so freely offered. He's certainly too young to recognise a diversionary tactic when he sees one.

*

It's a snowy day in February when Harry turns ten years old. He's pleased with the video games he unwraps and the ice cream cake his mum makes and that little bit of extra attention he gets at school. All in all, it's a very nice birthday.

His mum knocks on his door as he's getting ready for bed, walking into his room with a small, silver box in her hand.

Harry does an excited little dance at the prospect of more presents, and his foot catches on a stray sock, planting him on his bum amongst his dirty clothes. His mum hides a laugh behind her hand and sits down on Harry's bed, beckoning for him to join her.

She hands him the box with a nod and a smile, a clear instruction to open it. He lifts the lid, and nestled amongst crinkly tissue paper is a gold compass pendant hanging from a long, silver chain. It's—well, _pretty_ , but not exactly what Harry was expecting. Harry is nothing if not polite, though.

"Thank you, mum, it's very—nice." He turns the necklace over in his hand; it doesn't even have any markings for directions. Odd.

She smiles warmly at him. "Harry, love, you're old enough now that I can trust you with something important, right?"

He sits up straighter and nods eagerly; he's a great listener.

Harry is wide-eyed and hanging on every word as his mum spins an elaborate story, words like _necklace_ and _warmer as you get nearer_ and, most of all, _soulmate._ The weight of that word carries across the space between them, settling itself in Harry's heart like it wants to make a home there.

She pauses, watching Harry carefully for his reaction, hand palm up, a quiet reassurance that she's right there. Harry's breath is caught in his throat a bit, but he manages to make his mouth form the question that's at the forefront of his mind.

"But how will I know when I've found the right person?"

Her eyes get a faraway kind of look in them, her smile private, though still, somehow, like she's including Harry in the secret.

"You'll just know, love. Your necklace will help you out a bit, but you'll just know." she says, her voice gone soft and wistful.

And even though it's not an answer, not really, Harry finds that he doesn't want to press the issue—like maybe some of the magic lies within the mystery of it.

_You'll just know._

Maybe it really is that simple.

 

Except, Harry's necklace is only ever cool against the pale skin of his chest. And it's not like Harry's expecting to find his soulmate before he's even in secondary school—he's young, not naïve—but all his friends say they've felt twinges of warmth from their necklaces. Harry just wants some sort of confirmation that they're out there, if not waiting for him than at least keeping their heart open to the possibility.

He's heard stories, of course he has, of those that never find their soulmates, waiting and waiting and searching until they finally give up hope. Of people that throw their necklace away, feeling like it's an abuse of their free will.

Both possibilities terrify him. More than they probably should at such a young age, but his mum has always said that he's an old soul.

 

*

Harry is almost fifteen and everything is a Big Deal. He's a good kid, he is, and he's always been more easy going than most—but not even he can escape the unpredictable mood swings that come with being a teenager. Gemma always rolls her eyes at what she likes to call his 'fits', as though she's not still a teen herself.

It's nothing, really, in retrospect: a passing comment from a friend at school about Harry's necklace being unusually cool, but it sets Harry off, and when he gets home, his mood is dark and sullen. His mum notices almost immediately, asking him if he's alright, and Harry latches right onto the opportunity to let his frustrations out.

He tugs at his necklace, being more harsh with it than he would normally. "This dumb thing is never warm—what's the point of it if it doesn't even do what it's supposed to?"

"Honey, you just have to give it more time." Her voice is calm and placating and, from where Harry is standing, patronising. Like he's a _kid_ and doesn't know when something isn't right.

"It's—it's broken! It must be!" He pulls at the front of the chain, but it doesn't come free the way it always does in the movies, only adding to Harry's mounting frustration. "Stupid thing," he grumbles, toying with the clasp until it falls into his open hand. It feels even colder against his palm, and his fingers curls into a fist around it.

He tosses it aside carelessly, and it skitters across the floor until it hits the wall, underneath the table and thankfully out of view.

His mum's lips are pressed tightly together, almost like she's holding back laughter, and Harry feels betrayed and silly and very much fourteen. Tears burn hotly behind his eyelids, and he bites down on his bottom lip and turns his head away.

Suddenly, he's almost desperate for the comforting weight of his compass back against his chest, but he feels like it would be proving something to go pick it up now. It occurs to him, then, that his necklace could be lying under the table, broken by the force of hitting the wall, and his chest tightens at the thought, his breath coming in shuddery gasps. He can't make himself move to check.

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry." his mum says, instantly contrite at Harry's crestfallen expression. "You're just so young! I didn't find Robin until I was more than twice your age."

If her words are meant to be comforting, they have the opposite effect. Harry just wants and wants, and he _can't_ wait and wonder for that long. He can't.

 

A few months later, Harry goes to The Script concert and the compass pulses against his skin, warm and sure and like it's in sync with the wild beating of his heart. Harry feels like he's about to take flight, and he's almost vibrating out of his skin when he grabs Gemma's hand to feel his necklace.

Gemma smiles, wide and genuine, because she knows how much this means to Harry. "Not broken, then?"

 _Not broken, not broken, not broken._ He repeats the words over and over again in his mind, saying them once out loud just to get a feel for them on his tongue.

He wants to run around the whole venue and race up to every seat, seeing if the warmth intensifies, but he stays put, something telling him that this isn't the time. And it's not a sad kind of feeling but a content one. Like he knows now that that person is out there, and he just has to wait for the puzzle pieces to slide into place.  

The concert is amazing and Harry can't stop pressing his necklace against his skin, the heat not dulling the whole way through. He goes to sleep giddy and smiling and high off the entire night.

 

*

Harry is sixteen when he meets his soulmate and it's at the last place he would ever expect.

 

Harry splashes more cold water on his face, like maybe that will hide the fact that he's just thrown up in the toilets of Wembley Arena. The taste of sick is lingering in his mouth and his eyes are a bit red from letting out a few tears of frustration at just how much the nerves are getting to him.

It's not exactly ideal circumstances to be meeting anyone, let alone someone he would very much like to make a good first impression on.

Just as Harry is finishing up, the door swings open and a boy about his age walks in, smiling at Harry like they're long lost friends. Harry flushes a bit; something about his attention feels special, like he doesn't give it away so freely.

"Hi!" the boy says, a bit out of breath, like he ran all the way here. Harry manages a weak smile in return, and turns to pick up his necklace from the counter where he'd set it down a few minutes earlier.

Harry's fingers close around the pendant and his whole body jolts; his compass is warmer now than he's ever felt it. Not hot but a pleasant, buzzing warmth.

_Oh._

Harry takes a step backwards, a bit dazed, and the boy must have moved closer, because Harry steps right on his foot. He spins around quickly, checking his face for any sign of distress, but he's still smiling at Harry serenely, almost expectantly.

"Oops. I'm sorry, I'm so clumsy." Harry mumbles, but the boy waves his apology away.

"I'm Louis." He takes a step forward, and Harry's necklace pulses against his palm. Harry is shocked speechless, can do little more than stare at the boy— _Louis_ —wide eyed as he continues. "I saw your interview at auditions; you weren't wearing your necklace."

"I—I forgot it at home." He did, and it had been something of a bone of contention between him and his mum; Harry insisting he couldn't audition without it, his mum telling him how much he would regret missing his chance. In the end, Gemma had given him her necklace to wear on stage, promising him that he would do great and the judges would love him.

"'m Harry," he adds, a bit belatedly.

Harry can see the outline of Louis's necklace underneath his shirt, and it's suddenly all he can think of—to see it, touch it, maybe. He makes a movement to do just that, but draws back at the last second, remembering his well-instilled manners. They have just met, after all, even if Harry is pretty sure that this boy is—well, it's just best to ask first.

"Can I?"

Louis nods eagerly, like he'd been waiting for Harry to ask. He pulls his necklace over his shirt, revealing an intricate voyager ship. Which is enough to make Harry choke on any words he may have had, because there's nothing that fits with a compass quite like a ship does, is there?

Harry reaches out to touch, and when his fingers close around the— _warm so warm—_ pendant, the previously furled sails spring up to full mast. Louis is watching intently, and his breath hitches at the sight. Harry opens the hand holding his own necklace at the same time as Louis's comes up to brush over the compass. The arrow spins around wildly a few times before coming to a stop—and the word that it now points to definitely was not there before. _Home._

"You—you're my—" Harry feels like he's been waiting for this moment for most of his life, now he can hardly get the words out.

"Yeah," Louis says softly, "I reckon I am."

Harry might have been a little put out by the fact that Louis doesn't seem to be having similar difficulty forming coherent sentences, were it not for the slightly awed look in his blue eyes—like maybe he had been waiting for Harry too.

He tells Harry that he is a brilliant singer and he has nothing to worry about, _nothing,_ and Harry doesn't ask how Louis knew, because maybe it's written all over his face or maybe it goes deeper than that. Either way, he can't let himself think about it too much right now, because he's due on stage in less than ten minutes.

Before Harry has to go, Louis asks a frazzled looking crew member to take their picture on his phone because, "I want to remember this moment forever."

Overwhelmed doesn't even begin to describe Harry's state of mind as he walks away, Louis's number in his phone and promises that they will see each other again soon.

The very next day, Harry and Louis, along with three other boys that didn't make it through as solo artists, are put into a band together. Harry's eyes are still wet with tears of bitter disappointment, and he almost doesn't register Tulisa's _too talented to let go of_ and Simon's _we've decided to put you through_.

Harry doesn't think—he runs straight to Louis, hauling him into a hard hug that forces Louis to hitch his legs around Harry's waist. And Harry can't even bring himself to be embarrassed by the display, because he can't help it, because this is the biggest moment of his life so far and he has to share that with Louis.

Louis whispers in Harry's ear, low and only for him, "It's like fate, innit?"

Harry thinks about everything that has led up to this moment and thinks that fate is the perfect word for it.

 

Initially, there's that niggling fear in the back of Harry's mind: that he and Louis will have to fumble at first to find common ground, that maybe he'll have trouble reconciling this boy he's just met with a word so heavy with implications as _soulmate_. But, as Harry will repeat many times over in the years to come, he and Louis get on from the word go. It's honestly as if they've known each other their whole lives, each slotting into the empty spaces left behind by the other boy.

 _Puzzle pieces,_ Harry thinks, as his hands slide into Louis's soft, feathery hair, Louis's hands clutching him closer by his slim hips, lips moving messily against each other. There's an effortless rhythm to the way they move together that suggests years of practice instead of weeks. It's intoxicating, and Harry can barely summon the willpower to keep his hands off Louis when the cameras are around, is pretty sure his adoration is written all over his face anyway.

Everything is new and exciting, learning new things about each other every day, tucking the knowledge away in a little box in his mind marked _Louis_.

_Louis is 1/16th Belgian. Louis has four sisters. Louis laughs the loudest when he's surprised by the joke._

It's a feeling that Harry never wants to let go of.

 

Harry and Louis are lying, tangled together, in Harry's bunk after a particularly good performance, and Harry is feeling brave. Adrenaline high and ready to bare his heart.

Louis is chattering on excitedly about their performance, pointing out Zayn's impressive high note, Liam's steely determination, and _you were amazing, of course, Haz, the best of us_.

And Harry just jumps, says it before he can lose his nerve.

"Louis, Lou, I love you." He noses into the curve between Louis's neck and shoulder, all the wide-eyed vulnerability of a sixteen year old putting himself out there for the first time. It feels exhilarating to finally say it, if not completely terrifying. He presses his hand, thumb up, against Louis's chest. "I'm in love with you."

Louis's hand sinks into Harry's curls, tipping Harry's head back a bit so their eyes can meet; Harry's full of undisguised hope, Louis's wide and astonished.

"God, Harry," he breathes into Harry's mouth as he crashes their lips together, "I love you so much I feel like I'm going crazy with it sometimes."

Harry doesn't say _I love you so much it feels like I can't breathe without you_ _I can't imagine my life without you._ He holds onto the words for later, tucks them away in his heart next to _LouisLouisLouis_.

 

*

Harry is seventeen and apparently, like, a _proper_ pop star. He still can barely wrap his mind around the concept, but they're playing a sold out show to 3,500 fans, so. It's probably real.

Harry is sat in the dressing room, the lads all performing their various pre show rituals around him, and he's just kind of—waiting for the nerves to hit. Now, granted, he's past the stage where just the _thought_ of performing in front of so many people was nearly enough to make him feel ill—he's still never felt this overwhelming sense of _calm_ before. It's almost a bit unsettling in its abnormality.

Louis sits down next to him, checking in like he always does before they're about to go on, a step in both of their pre-show preparations that Louis never forgets. He slides in close and rests his hand on Harry's knee. "Hey, babe, are you alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm. Fine?" It turns into a question at the end, Harry searching for validation that, logically, Louis can't really give him.

He shouldn't be surprised when Louis knows the exact right thing to say. After all, he always does.

"Yeah, Haz, of course you are; look where we are." He spreads his arms out wide, an all-encompassing gesture to the arena around them.

Harry gapes a bit; the thought hadn't even occurred to him. "You—you really think that's it, Lou?"

He nods, serious in the way he rarely gets while he's gearing up for a performance. "I do."

A few minutes later, Harry is following the boys down the hall, trying not to trip over his own feet as he stumbles on stage, a bit staggered by the realisation. Louis steadies him with a hand on his hip and _we're going to smash it_ whispered in his ear.

 

They do smash it. Maybe it's the adrenaline talking but Harry thinks it very well may be their best overall performance as a group to date.

The concert is nearing to a close, and Harry has to say something, knows he'll regret it if he doesn't. He steps to centre stage to address the audience, even though his words are for Louis.

"This venue is quite special to me." he begins, after he's greeted the crowd. "I've been to quite a few gigs here before, and I remember about three years ago, I was stood just about there to watch the Script in here. And it turns out that Louis was at the same gig!"

When Harry turns, Louis is pink-cheeked and smiling, biting down on his bottom lip the way he does when he's truly pleased but wants to hold onto it for a more private moment. Harry wants to kiss him so badly he's almost shaking with it.

The whole venue sings Louis happy birthday, and Harry doesn't remember ever being happier than in this moment.

 

Back at the hotel that night, Louis whispers sweet words into Harry's skin as he presses inside him.

 _So, so glad I met you, babe_ and _been wishing for you since that night three years ago._

_Love you love you love you._

_My favourite boy._

 

*

Harry is eighteen and Louis is twenty and Louis has taken a liking to tattoos, now, that he swore he never would. He's the one to suggest their newest designs, and Harry is shocked that it hadn't occurred to him first. He immediately checks their upcoming schedule and emails his tattoo artist in LA.

Harry gets his tattoo first, flushing and proud the way he always is when he gets a permanent mark on his body for Louis. Louis holds his hand the whole time, even though Harry doesn't really mind the pain anymore. He wants Louis to be connected to the process in every way he can be.

Of course, the very next interview they have, he's asked about his new tattoo. He says that it's just a boat, smirking as he repeats it. Louis is delighted by his answer, throwing his head back and laughing, because it's obviously anything _but_ 'just a boat', and Louis loves any opportunity to fuck with the people who seem to feel entitled to every aspect of their lives.

The next day, Louis gets the compass, and Harry can't stop tracing the familiar lines, the arrow that points home and right towards Harry's ship when their hands are clasped.

"I love it." Harry whispers one night, at home and spooned up behind Louis. "I love you."

He thinks, _home is wherever I'm with you_.

 

*

Harry is twenty-three years old when he marries his soulmate.

He thinks back to all the times he's been asked in interviews and the like: _what's the best thing that's happened to you so far?_ None of the answers he ever gave can even exist in the same stratosphere as the day he sees Louis walking down the aisle toward him, lips set in what has become known as his Harry Smile. And Harry is amazed how, seven years later, his heart beats just as fast as the first time that Louis smiled at him like they were the only two people in the world.

And God, maybe it's a cliché but he feels like the luckiest man alive, he really, truly does. He knows there are lots of people out there that lead happy, fulfilling lives, and hell maybe they'll even have the good fortune to marry their best friend, same as Harry. But the thing is that nobody, _nobody_ but Harry gets to spend the rest of their lives with Louis Tomlinson.

Nobody but Harry gets to wake up every single morning to a beautiful, sleepy soft boy, lips curling upward with just the beginnings of mischief. Nobody but Harry gets to know the way Louis looks when he's coming undone, vulnerability long forgotten, checked at the door. And nobody but Harry gets to grow old with the boy he met in the toilets all those years ago, to build a family with him.

And _the thing is_ that Harry doesn't feel like _luckiest man alive_ is a stretch, not even a little bit. Not even at all.

His and Louis's eyes meet, and Harry sees his own thoughts reflected there, the way they've always been freakishly on the same wavelength. Attuned to each other so well that Niall is half convinced they can read each other's minds. (Sometimes, Harry isn't so sure that they can't.)

Louis reaches the altar, given away by a tearful Jay and stoically proud Mark. Harry has to concentrate on each solitary breath as Louis gets nearer with every step, his compass a warm, grounding weight beneath his impeccably pressed dress shirt.

As soon as he's close enough, Harry takes both of Louis's hands in his own slightly clammy ones. Louis leans in close, the whisper of his breath against Harry's ear, and sings a few bars of that Beach Boys song that, somewhere along the way, became _their song_.

_Wouldn't it be nice if we were older_

_Baby, then there wouldn't be a single thing we couldn't do_

_We could be married_

_Wouldn't it be nice_

Harry smiles (doesn't cry, doesn't cry, doesn't cry—he _will_ get through his vows first) and thinks, maybe, with Louis by his side, he won't ever stop.

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello i'm on [tumblr](http://amioriginiall.tumblr.com/)


End file.
